


all you've ever wanted, all that you want still

by brampersandon



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Kitchen Sex, M/M, Manager/Player
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-08
Updated: 2018-12-08
Packaged: 2019-09-14 01:53:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16903881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brampersandon/pseuds/brampersandon
Summary: He'll talk the ear off of anyone who will listen, and Andrea's still quietly trying to find his place in this world. It's a natural fit. He sits there chewing on the collar of his jacket while Allegri gestures toward the field, explains who he'd play in what position and how he'd let it flow from there. Points out the tactical errors when he sees them, from the glaring to the subtle that Andrea missed entirely."I want to be a coach. I always have," he explains unnecessarily after a rant that Andrea silently clocked at seven and a half minutes. To be fair, he punctuates it with a self-effacing sidelong grin and an elbow between Andrea's ribs. "Is it obvious?""No," Andrea says, voice mild, face entirely straight. "News to me."





	all you've ever wanted, all that you want still

**Author's Note:**

  * For [selenedaydreams](https://archiveofourown.org/users/selenedaydreams/gifts).



> first and foremost: only god can judge me, and he does.
> 
> secondly: HAPPY BIRTHDAY TEO!! ♥ not to get emo but your friendship really has made a largely garbage year much more tolerable and i don't know what i'd have done without you to scream about everything under the sun with. ily tons and tons, i hope you had a wonderful birthday, now here's some truly trash porn disguised as character study. YOU KNOW HOW I DO.
> 
> title comes from _brazil_ by declan mckenna.

It's a dream, and not a particularly unique one at that.

He and his friends play behind their school, in the streets of their neighborhoods, in any park with any other kids who will have them. They call themselves Zoff, Baggio, Del Piero and boast about how they'll be signing for Milan in a few years. It's all blowing smoke, Andrea knows that better than most, their belief in themselves is only as real as their adolescent invincibility. A few of them might kick their way around a few semi-pro clubs, but all of that's just a way to delay the inevitable foray into adulthood. 

He keeps telling himself that, even as he's riding his scooter into Pistoia for his first day of training. He's under no delusion that this will be his life for any longer than a few more years. It's a nice diversion before reality sets in. He thinks he'd like to be a banker when it's all over. That might be nice.

 

 

 

 

He's not exactly sure what he's doing in Pistoiese. He's the youngest on their team by several years, the only one who still lives at home with his family, and even in a group of average-at-best players he barely ranks. Still, it's worth it just to get the experience traveling for away matches — he enjoys getting to wander Ravenna and Venice, visits Sardinia for the first time to sit on the bench against Cagliari and falls in love right away. He could move there, he thinks. Even paradise needs bankers.

 

 

 

 

Allegri only plays every other match — "I'm practically already retired," he shrugs when Andrea naively asks why he doesn't ask to start more since he's not half-bad — and they spend a lot of time together on the bench, arms folded as they watch the team struggle through.

He'll talk the ear off of anyone who will listen, and Andrea's still quietly trying to find his place in this world. It's a natural fit. He sits there chewing on the collar of his jacket while Allegri gestures toward the field, explains who he'd play in what position and how he'd let it flow from there. Points out the tactical errors when he sees them, from the glaring to the subtle that Andrea missed entirely. 

"I want to be a coach. I always have," he explains unnecessarily after a rant that Andrea silently clocked at seven and a half minutes. To be fair, he punctuates it with a self-effacing sidelong grin and an elbow between Andrea's ribs. "Is it obvious?"

"No," Andrea says, voice mild, face entirely straight. "News to me."

Allegri laughs at that, loud and barking, mouth wide open. They're trailing by a goal when the rain starts to fall. "A little on the nose," Andrea remarks, and it makes him laugh again. He likes that.

 

 

 

 

"I have a suggestion," Allegri tells him one day before training. By now Andrea's learned that translates to _I know better than you so keep your ears open_. He's not exactly as subtle as he wants to believe he is.

"You always do."

"I do!" He claps him over the shoulder as they turn out the door and make their way to the training pitch. "Are you enamored with the idea of being a middling footballer for the rest of your life?"

Andrea blinks at him — he's only a few months into his tenure as an aspiring professional _at all_ , he's not enamored with any of it yet. But that's not what Allegri— _Max_ , he's trying to remind himself, he keeps telling him to call him Max— that's not what he wants to hear. So. "No," he answers dutifully.

"Good, because that's what I've been, and it's shit." He snorts at that; at least Max is never anything but honest. "Keep on in the midfield and that's what you'll be."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence," Andrea says breezily. He knows he's not the fastest or most technically gifted midfielder there is, he knows that even on their squad he ranks somewhere near the bottom overall, but he's doing his best to learn. "Was that your suggestion? Because it's shit too."

Max laughs. He does that a lot, especially around Andrea, and it's always a startling thing, like the sound gets suddenly expelled from him with no warning. "No. My suggestion is for you to drop back more." 

They hit the touchline and he wriggles out from under him so he can stoop down and re-tie his shoes. "I play about as far back as the midfield goes."

"So fuck the midfield." Andrea glances up, watches the wide and knowing smile crawl across Max's face. In a flash he gets it, it all makes sense in the split second before Max asks, "Have you ever thought of playing as a centre-back?"

 

 

 

 

The truth is that he hadn't thought of it. Not once, not ever. He admired the midfield most of all, so that's where he put himself when he started to play. Even when he didn't run as fast as the other boys, even when he just kept growing taller and packing on more muscle without really meaning to. It's the space where the player can have the most freedom to roam, and he always liked the idea of that — liked it enough that he never bothered to take a look and see it if actually suited the way his body knows it can play.

He won't do anything unless the mister says he can, and Max takes that for the admission of interest that it is and tells Pillon himself. 

When he starts his next match, he's directly in front of Dei. They don't keep a clean sheet against Sampdoria, but they do win handily, and Andrea's still just enough of a dreamer to let himself believe his clearances may have had something to do with it.

 

 

 

 

He returns to Rondinella in a new position, and they all joke that he's reinvented himself so young, he must be a new man — but there's a little ring of truth to their jabs. 

 

 

 

 

By the time he makes the move to Chievo, he's the first of his childhood friends to play in the top flight and get called up for the national team. By the time he packs up and moves down south to play for Palermo, he's the only one still playing at all.

It's hardly as glamorous as they all imagined, there's a fair amount of drudgery involved and a lot less wine and cake than playing for amateur teams back home, but for the first time Andrea begins to think that this isn't a fluke. He didn't wind up here by sheer luck alone. He isn't biding his time mucking about pitches all up and down Italy to stave off a regular life. He's _good_ , he's actually really fucking good. 

One day he's stumbling his way through his first press conference as a Serie A player, and the next he's a World Cup winner, the captain of Palermo, the future of Italy's defense with no shortage of clubs scouting him. And stupid as it is, some nights when he can hardly believe it he remembers Allegri, reedy and too loud and supremely confident in everything he said, placing his hands on his shoulders and guiding him backwards toward to the goal, the path that led him here.

 

 

 

 

His grandmother cries when he says he's leaving for Germany. 

Even as he helps Wolfsburg lift their first league title, he wonders if it was worth it.

 

 

 

 

He can't stop himself from checking the news on the football back home every morning. He misses it, all of it, and every time he finds time to catch a match it's like an extra stab in his side. He doesn't hate it in Germany— he's relatively certain he'd be in the same position no matter where he ended up. He never thought he'd be a footballer beyond wild pipe dreams, so is it really any wonder that he's not cut out for the life of moving to a new country every few years?

Allegri's inescapable. He's front page news every day, his revitalized Milan who just can't stop winning. They've put the fear of god into Inter, something nobody else could come close to in years, and it's got just as much to do with Allegri as it does Ibrahimović and Robinho. 

Andrea smears marmalade on his breakfast rolls and tears them apart in chunks to chew on while he reads another transcript of Allegri's post-match comments. It's funny, he thinks. The same guy who sat next to him on the bench through shitty second league matches gets asked if he thinks he can lead a club to the Scudetto and means yes when he says it. 

Turns out, they both got what they wanted — he's a professional footballer, Max is a top flight manager. Anything's possible. 

 

 

 

 

As they struggle through the season and the holidays approach, he asks his agent to put out feelers back in Italy. It can't hurt to try. Who knows, maybe Fiorentina will take a second glance at him — probably not after what he did, but he can still dream. It'd be nice to move closer to his family again. More likely it'll be one of the teams further down the table, hoping to cash in on a semi-solid defender. Cagliari wouldn't be terrible. He always wanted to live on the beach.

What he doesn't expect: Juventus, hot on the heels of losing their first two matches of the new year, reaching out and extending an offer. It sounds like a joke when his agent tells him. Not that Juventus are trying to strengthen their squad — that makes sense, they've hardly been doing better than Wolfsburg this year — but that they're trying to do it with _him_. Nearly on the wrong side of thirty, not the kind of defender capable of finding the back of the net with any sort of regularity, had a good run for a while there but hardly impressive at all these days—

"But cheap," his agent counters. "You've got that going for you."

 

 

 

 

It's not a perfect fit right away. He isn't the solution to their myriad problems. But god, being back with Gigi and Giorgio is almost enough to make up for it — and then he meets Claudio, and Leo, and he falls into life in Turin like he's never been anywhere else. 

They still end the season in a dismal position. Seventh place, no European nights for them, nothing but a long yawning summer before they dust themselves off and try again. It doesn't matter to Andrea. Wolfsburg could've promised him all the trophies in the world — that wouldn't come close to matching the familiarity of home.

 

 

 

 

The Scudetto still lives in Milan, but it changes hands at the end of the year. Andrea watches the footage of all of them lifting the trophy and Max right along with it. 

Anything's possible, he reminds himself. Delneri's on his way out, that much is guaranteed. There's a rumor, more persistent by the day, that they'll get Conte to come back home — someone with Juventus DNA to right the ship because if that won't do it, nothing will. Max kisses the trophy on his television before it cuts to Inter, stunned, dejected. Anything's possible.

 

 

 

 

"Well, look at you."

Anyone else would be sly about it, but Allegri's not anyone else, never has been. His voice booms down the tunnel and Andrea turns to see him standing there, hands in the pockets of his suit, head cocked, that grin that's just wide enough to be unnerving spreading across his face. "Good enough to start for Juventus, but not good enough to get through a whole warm up?"

He grins back, shifts to hold his shin guards in one hand and reaches the other out to shake Max's. Conte sent him back to get taped up, worried about a lingering soreness in his calf, but Max doesn't need to know that. "Surprise, I'm still a lazy shit," he says instead, bright and cheery.

Max is laughing when he pulls him in to clap him on the shoulder, and the familiarity of it shocks through him all at once. They're in Pistoia, celebrating a rare win, Max chuckling loud and exuberant against his neck. 

It's— disorienting. He steadies himself when they separate and he feels like he should say something, congratulate him on the job, on last year's trophy, on getting to where he always knew he belonged, even before anyone else believed it too. But somewhere between his brain and his mouth he remembers Conte drilling into them every morning, noon and night that this is their season, and they'll be as ruthless as they need to take it. 

"Don't get too used to winning," he says instead, throws Max a wink before continuing down the hall to the dressing rooms. Don't fraternize with the enemy. Focus.

Gigi keeps a clean sheet and Claudio scores two goals. That night Andrea ends up sandwiched between the two of them, and it's good. It keeps his mind from wandering.

 

 

 

 

They don't lose a single match. The Scudetto returns to Turin for the first time in over a decade. He plays nearly every game, scores his first goal, extends his contract, goes to the Euros, takes silver. 

Not bad for a kid from Fiesole who thought it'd be fun to kick around a ball for a few years just so he wouldn't have to go to school.

 

 

 

 

They all know Conte's going to leave. It's inevitable — not because Juventus want him gone, but because anyone would be stupid to pass up the opportunity to manage Italy, especially when the idea is that if he raised his club up from perdition, surely he could do the same for his country. The writing is on the wall all summer, and while the idea of a future without him is unnerving, they're happy for him— mostly.

"You've set a new world record for sulking," Claudio tells Leo when they meet back up in Turin for dinner a few days before they're set to report for preseason. He's right. Leo wears the same sour face he did while they were training before heading out to Brazil— if anything, it's gotten worse since then.

Giorgio's kinder about it, a hand on Leo's knee beneath the table as he goes through all the usual consolations: A new manager may mean new tactics but it doesn't necessarily mean he'll be replaced, he's got youth on his side after all, if anyone should be worried about that it's him and Andrea—

"Shut the fuck up," Andrea says through a mouthful of fresh bread, "I'm a spring chicken."

At the same time, Leo slumps further into his chair and pushes his own bread around a little puddle of oil. "That's not what I'm worried about." He pauses before the corners of his mouth lift for half a second. "But you're right, you and Barza are old as shit."

He rolls his eyes at that, snatches the bottle of wine away from Leo and Giorgio's side of the table to refill his glass. "You know you can still suck his dick at Coverciano, right? It's not the end of the world."

"Let's not spread rumors," Giorgio says placidly.

Claudio smirks around his own wine glass. "Even if they're true."

To be fair, Leo never tells them they're wrong.

 

 

 

 

They know the day before the general public does, and somehow Andrea imagines it'll make a bigger splash, but no such luck. A couple trophies in one season with Milan and then a slow downward spiral into mediocrity doesn't inspire much confidence from the Juve faithful. Best case scenario, they get a few good signings, at least finish high enough to keep playing in the Champions League, and worst case, well— maybe Conte will come back again.

Still.

He puts his phone down, lifts his gaze to where Claudio's floating across the pool. "I think it's gonna work out." He ducks briefly underwater at that before resurfacing and swims over to the side of the pool, has the audacity to look doubtful. Andrea leans forward in his chair, rests his chin on the heel of one palm. "I really do. He's intense, he won't let us fail."

A wave of water comes up and hits him right in the face. When his vision clears, Claudio's grinning at him, stupid wet curls plastered to his forehead and eyes creasing at the corners. "Get in the pool," he starts to say, but it cuts off with a squawk as Andrea jumps in right on top of him.

 

 

 

 

Max must sense everyone's trepidation— though really, it'd be more difficult not to. He assures them he isn't going to reinvent the wheel here. The things that Conte put into place that have been working, he fully intends to keep — only touch up, only refine. And the rest?

"We can do better," he explains simply. "In the Coppa. In Europe. Winning the league is important too, but we can do so much better."

It's not a revolutionary thought, but somehow this time it sticks, makes them unstoppable. And just as he promised, he doesn't try to fix what isn't broken, keeps Leo and Giorgio in defense right in front of Gigi. Stephan slots in easily to replace him, Patrice helps out when needed. It _works_. Somewhere beneath the relief at how well they're doing, a twinge of fear spikes in Andrea's gut. He's not as indispensable to their defense as he may have thought, and as the months drag on with rehabilitation appointments and scans and follow-ups and training with the youth team which makes him feel an eternity older and slower than he already is, he starts to wonder if they'll still have a place for him when the time comes.

He never brings it up, but he doesn't have to. In February, Max sends him to play a couple games with Primavera. "Think of it as a trial," he says, and the way he smiles says that it's not entirely a joke. "Prove you can keep up with those kids and I'll get you back in the lineup as fast as I can."

 

 

 

 

He stands at the touchline, adrenaline buzzing hot and quick through his blood, bounces a little on his heels and swings his arms. Eight months on the sideline, watching Juventus dominate at every turn, willing his body to heal faster so he could be a part of that— eight months for this, one goal up with three minutes left.

It shouldn't mean as much to him as it does, but god, it does.

Max lays an arm over his shoulders, tugs him in brief but close and knocks their heads together. He doesn't say anything, no instructions, no well wishes. He just stands back and lets Andrea take the pitch to do what he does best.

 

 

 

 

No one even comes close to them in the league, then they tire Lazio out long enough to take the Coppa too — and just like that, before they know it, they've got the double, they're teetering on the edge of the treble. Allegri's almost reticent about it, and it surprises Andrea — he never takes the praise heaped upon him to heart and never lets them get complacent. Head up, eyes forward, focus on the next challenge. Even after the season ends, he says, he won't rest on his laurels, he'll start thinking of next season. They can always do better.

"You've gotten serious," he tells Max after the final presser of the season, a mere formality with both trophies already in hand.

"You've gotten old," Max snaps back immediately, but there's no malice to it and he grins at him sideways. 

Sometimes Andrea still catches a glimpse of the loudmouth midfielder who thought he could run a second league club better than their coach — usually when he's screaming at them that they're all dickheads who look like they've never touched a football before in their lives. But for the most part, he's matured into a respectable and humble manager, and Andrea feels a formless sort of longing about it. Like he should've been there to watch the transition. Like he doesn't know this Max like he knew the old one, and it didn't hit him until now.

Before he can stop himself, he asks, "Do you have any plans next week?"

 

 

 

 

They only get two days off between the end of the season and the beginning of training for Berlin. Andrea sleeps for thirteen straight hours the first night, wakes up and eats half his weight in sweets from his favorite bakery before trying in vain to work it off. In the grand scheme of things, it's probably safer to laze around at home than to jet off to Amsterdam or Monaco for a quick whirlwind holiday, but he still feels a bit guilty about it.

By the second morning he's managed to convince himself that he _will_ get up, eat egg whites and spinach before going for a nice run, but mostly he lays in bed and thinks about how virtuous he'll be after doing those things instead of actually doing them. He only drags himself out from beneath the blankets when Max finally deigns to text him — _My evening freed up_ , it says. _Do you still have room at dinner?_

Think of it less as a player and a manager, he'd told Max before, and more like two old friends catching up. That had made him laugh too hard to be entirely kind, but here he is accepting the invitation anyway. 

 

 

 

 

Like any good dinner guest, he brings a bottle of wine — and like any good manager, he tells Andrea to take it easy when he opens it, he's still expected to report for training tomorrow. "After the Coppa you smelled like Barolo for days," he says. Andrea doesn't think twice before kicking his shin.

Andrea's not much of a cook, but he was raised right. He can throw together a salad and bolognese with little effort. His tiramisu's the showstopper anyway, just like his grandmother made for him every time he had a long enough break to come back to Fiesole. He can't bake anything else, can't even make any adjustments to her recipe, he only knows the muscle memory in his heart.

"That's fucking obscene," Max says when he takes his first bite, and then immediately takes three more. His grandmother would slap him right on the mouth for that, but Andrea knows it's a compliment.

Andrea preemptively cuts second slices for both of them and refills their wine, waves Max off when he raises his eyebrows at him. "The night is young. Plenty of time to digest and sober up." When that doesn't smooth out the wrinkles on Max's forehead, he tries a different approach. "It's my first Champions League final, _mister_ ," he says, just a touch too pointed. "I'm not going to fuck it up. Don't worry."

Max chews it over along with his tiramisu and then nods slowly. "Mine too."

He feels it starting to build up just under his skin again, that anticipatory hum, then that swooping sensation low in his belly, like he's on a carnival ride just before the drop. They're not just bullshitting. They really are going to the final. They really believe they could win.

"You're a good manager," he says suddenly, and when Max scoffs and brushes it off he gets louder. "I'm serious! Who knew you'd actually turn out to be really fucking good?" He remembers Max younger, with more hair, just as lanky and headstrong, telling him that's what he always wanted to do. Playing was just a means of getting there, not something he ever really enjoyed. "You like it, right?"

A profoundly stupid question, if the look Max gives him is any indication. "Love it," he corrects him, and— it's more sincerity than Andrea's ever heard from him before.

 

 

 

 

They kill the bottle. Andrea offers to get another out of his cellar — one from his own winery, just for Max to taste, that way he'll come back later and buy a whole case or two — but they end up finishing that off too, still seated at the dining room table, getting progressively rowdier in their reminiscing and shit talking everyone else they've ever played with or against. The later it gets, the more Max looks like he did back in Pistoia. He undoes the first couple buttons of his shirt, leans back in his chair and laughs so hard he wheezes. 

Andrea's eyes linger on the long line of his neck, slow to pull away even when Max straightens up and looks at him again. 

He's going to pay for all of this in the morning. He knows it.

Eventually he forces himself to get up, dumps all of their dirty plates in the sink and resolves to deal with it tomorrow — well, honestly, probably the day after, or maybe never at all, maybe they'll still be there when they get back from Berlin. 

Which.

"Shit," he exhales, the whole weight of it sinking into him from the top down. "We're going to Berlin."

For the first time all season, Max lets himself luxuriate in it, leans a hip against the counter and throws his head back, arms spread wide. "Fucking Berlin."

"If we win, I'll shave my head," Andrea hears himself say, his mouth getting away from him like it always does when he's drunk. "I'll walk naked through Turin. I'll do anything."

"You'd do that anyway."

"Yeah. Well. No, not the bald thing, but the naked thing, sure."

It feels natural, way too natural, leaning into Max's space as they both laugh. He's got an arm over his shoulder again, just like he did a couple months ago as Andrea waited to make his return to the pitch. Max had kept his word, he realizes dimly. As soon as he was fit, he started every match, right back with Leo and Giorgio where he belongs. Max held the place for him, let him back in.

"Am I gonna start the final?" he asks. He can smell the wine on his own breath. Or Max's, he's close enough. Probably both.

Max squints at him, mouth crooked into an incredulous smile. "Why wouldn't you?" His arm is still looped over Andrea's shoulder, and he reaches up to pat his hair. "One of the greatest Italian defenders, anyone would be stupid not to start you—" And suddenly he's grinning like the devil. "Especially the guy who made you the player you are."

Andrea blinks.

Opens his mouth.

Closes it again.

Then—

"You fucking did not."

"I fucking _did_!" He throws his hands up in the air, and like a petulant child Andrea grabs at them until they come back down to where they were, now both over his shoulders. Max jostles him as he pitches his voice lower in a halfway-decent imitation of him. " _I want to be a midfielder, I want to be Baggio_ — that was you! I told you to play in defense. Now look at you."

He could keep arguing, he really could — because yeah, that was Allegri's idea, but Allegri had a lot of ideas back then and very few of them stuck, it was Pillon who officially moved him into the back line — but something about it makes him shiver. Max, all poised and cocksure in the tunnel years ago, staring him down for the first time in years, _look at you_ — he was probably crediting himself then too, the bastard. 

But he doesn't hate that. Not at all.

He's drunk. That's why he leans in and kisses Max, that's the only reason why — and Max is drunk too, that's why he fists both hands in Andrea's hair and nips at his lower lip, that's the only reason why. Nothing more to it. Certainly nothing to do with Andrea shuddering again at the thought that Max _made him_.

"Hey, mister," he says when he breaks away to kiss the hard line of Max's jaw instead. His hands wander down to Max's belt, probably fucking Armani or something, guy can't even dress casual for dinner with a friend. "Can I—?"

Max nods, and he thinks, _cool, so I'm going to jerk my manager off days before a Champions League final in my own kitchen, that's normal_ but then he feels Max's hands pressing down on his shoulders. "You can," Max says. When Andrea looks at him, he's got that borderline-maniacal smirk on his face. It really shouldn't be as hot as it is.

"Should've saved asking you if I was starting for after this," he mumbles nonsensically as he sinks down to his knees and unbuttons Max's pants. "Make me earn it, right?"

Max's hands card through his hair before he rests one on his shoulder again, keeps the other cradled lazily against the back of his head. "Barzagli," he murmurs, so fond it makes Andrea's chest swell, "You've already earned it."

Andrea doesn't blush, it's not his thing, but he does surge forward to mouth at Max through his briefs to muffle his involuntary moan. He's half-hard already — _good_ , Andrea thinks blearily, _it's not just me_ — and he wastes no time yanking his briefs down too so he can guide his cock into Andrea's mouth, growing harder against his tongue. He sighs and scratches against the back of Andrea's neck when he starts sucking in earnest, bobbing his head and getting nice and sloppy with it to turn Max on. He hisses a string of curses and tangles his fingers tight in his hair when Andrea has enough of that and closes his eyes to swallow him all the way down instead.

"You're not as loud as I thought you'd be," Andrea says when he pulls off for a moment to catch his breath.

It takes a beat for that to sink in before Max squints down at him. "Have you thought about it a lot then?"

"Shut up," Andrea snorts and strokes him faster.

"Dickhead," Max breathes, and then he's shoving his mouth back down onto him, jutting his hips forward. His cock keeps hitting the back of Andrea's throat and he chokes a little, which only makes Max swear more, just a few more seconds of it and no warning at all before he comes, the hand in Andrea's hair gripping so hard he practically sees stars. 

He's painfully hard in his jeans, and he expects absolutely nothing out of Max, he's perfectly fine with calling it a night there, but after a few moments of silence punctured only by their heavy breathing, Max hooks a hand under his chin and tilts his face toward him. "Stand up for me," he says, voice rough, like he was the one who just got his face fucked. 

Andrea does, tries to go in to kiss him again but isn't quick enough before Max turns him around. He braces his hands against the counter, dizzy and overwhelmed and so deliriously fucking happy as Max tugs his jeans and boxers down at once. "Could've asked you to fuck me like this," Andrea muses with a breathy little laugh. 

"Save it for when we win the treble," Max says hot against his ear. And then he's got an arm around his chest to keep him steady, the other hand up toward his mouth. "Open."

 _Fuck_. It absolutely shouldn't get him off, Max using that tone as he slips three fingers into Andrea's mouth. There's something very fucking wrong with him and he finds he doesn't care at all. Eventually he pulls his hand away and wraps it around Andrea's cock in one slick motion. It's barely anything and it's too much, Max's damp hand moving hard and fast, his chin hooked over his shoulder, his voice still all commanding manager tough when he tells him to come. 

He loses track of time and space for a bit, just leans against the counter and pants, the world spinning when he finally opens his eyes again. Max is still resting against him, one tacky hand curved lazily over Andrea's hip. 

It's only then that he chances a glance down and bursts into peels of laughter.

"On my dishwasher? You bastard. That's stainless steel."

"Cleans easy," Max mumbles, and Andrea doesn't think he's imagining the kiss he presses against his shoulder.

**Author's Note:**

> \- max's end goal was always [to be a manager](https://www.theplayerstribune.com/en-us/articles/massimiliano-allegri-juventus-the-principal)! also that article always makes me cry. he's so good.
> 
> \- wish i was kidding about max telling barza to be a defender but i'm not. here's [max's side](http://www.espn.com/soccer/juventus/story/3150241/juventus-massimiliano-allegri-i-told-andrea-barzagli-to-become-a-defender) and [barza's side](https://www.football-italia.net/95109/barzagli-allegri-changed-my-position) of the story.
> 
> \- juve signed barza from wolfsburg for a measly €300,000 and it is widely regarded as [literally the best thing they've ever done](https://www.theguardian.com/football/the-gentleman-ultra/2017/jun/02/andrea-barzagli-best-signing-juventus-champions-league).
> 
> \- barza had surgery on his foot after the 2014 world cup and was out until march 2015. [here's him and max when he made his comeback](http://la-vecchia-signora.tumblr.com/post/113282205220). i feel a very normal way about that.
> 
> \- thanks for reading this incredibly niche shit! ♥ i'm on [tumblr](http://strikerbacks.tumblr.com) if you ever want to yell about juve.


End file.
